


primed

by miriya



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Child Soldiers, Gen, big brother weskham and the surly sword infant, he's a shithead is what i'm saying, roadtrip v1, some war gore, teenage cor being every inch a teenage boy, unprepared prince regis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 14:19:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16812349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: It never grows cold under fire.Long before he was the Marshal, Cor was a fierce kid with talent and a singular confidence in himself -- one who certainly didn't need validation or acceptance from the prince he'd been conscripted to travel with.  The first leg of a long trip, for the Cor Week 2018 promptCor traveling with Regis+co.





	primed

**Author's Note:**

> you've got your mother's eyes  
> you've got your father's heart  
> look what it did to him.  
> \- Shearwater, Wildlife in America

They've barely left the shadows cast by the checkpoints when the car lurches and sputters and knocks itself to a shuddering halt, the cloying, sulfurous reek of burning oil and the prince's nervous laughter filling the cabin. Cor is been wedged between Cid and Weskham, listening in shock as Cid's following tantrum — directed at Prince Regis himself — climbs in both volume and intensity, culminating in a moment where the angry mechanic reaches out to strike the back of the prince's head. Reflexively, Cor catches his wrist. 

Weskham catches his.

Several seconds of silence follow, before Clarus Amicitia clears his throat uncomfortably and points out the obvious: that the Regalia is in trouble and they'd better do something about _that_ before the Nifs catch them with their proverbial pants down, that there'll be plenty of time to drown Regis in the nearest puddle once they're somewhere more suitable.

All of it underscores how desperately out of place Cor is among them, an understanding perpetually reinforced by each unhappy look turned his way. Once they've shoved the derelict vehicle to the run-down service station in the distance, Cor retreats to the relative comfort of the chilly desert evening beyond the rusty door of the repair bay, volunteering himself for patrol duty if only to get a little space. That they don't want him here is fine. That they seem more inclined to focus on annoying one another and laughing at the results rather than the mission is fine. None of these things are Cor's problem.

He is only here to fight.

The ugly, skeletal dog-like creatures roaming the opposite side of the tarmac help, a little, to work off some of his own irritation. Not as much as setting his sword to Nifs would, but at least he's doing _something_ useful. It helps, too, to shake out some of the awe of the land beyond Insomnia's crowded embrace, trading sand for concrete, steep mountains for the uniform gray of the city's walls.

Around dusk, Cor circles the compound one last time before settling on a boulder between the lone gas pump and the road, until the weird, inconsistent bursts of strained-sounding laughter from the men gathered around the Regalia aren't quite so jarring. He's half-considering reaching for his blade and whetstone from the prince's armiger, just to have something to do with his hands, when he hears the steady sound of footsteps approaching. Not heavy enough to be boots, which narrows down the possibilities considerably. (It certainly isn't going to be the _prince_ , anyway.) 

The soft clack of beads settles his suspicions, but Cor doesn't turn around.

"Hungry, yet?"

Weskham's low, rumbling voice draws Cor's attention away from the long ribbon of highway hugging the foot of the mountains to the south. He holds in his hands a tin cup, the steam rising from it thick enough to look like smoke — but smelling much, much better. Cor's belly gurgles sympathetically, and he looks away in embarrassment as the prince's steward laughs quietly. "I suppose I have my answer, then," Weskham says, and leans up against the side of Cor's perch, offering up the cup. "Here — there's more back in the shop, if you'd like. Not my most complex recipe, mind you, but one learns to make do with what's available, yes?"

Cor says nothing, though he does eventually reach out, bare fingers flinching back from the heat of the metal before coming back from within the protection of his jacket sleeves. He very deliberately ignores the reassuring smile Weskham turns on him, choosing instead to resume his vigil.

"Cid says that we should be on the road by noon tomorrow — maybe less, depending on if he can fabricate the ... rod, I believe he said, that he needs with the materials available to us here. And then we'll be on to my hometown. Have you ever seen Keycatrich, Cor?"

"Never been past the checkpoint." It isn't quite grudging, the way Cor says it. But small talk is still mostly a mystery to him, the sort of thing people do when they can't figure out what to say to one another but decide they need to be talking, anyway. Cor likes quiet; different from the prince and his friends in this way, too.

Weskham doesn't seem to mind, anyway, stubbornly plowing on while Cor watches him warily over the rim of the cup. "Never? Well then, this must be quite the change of pace for you. What do you think so far?"

"It's too easy to lose footing in the sand," Cor say, frowning. "Those Nif units are probably too heavy to be affected, but we shouldn't fight them on it."

Weskham opens his mouth to say something, but decides otherwise. Instead, he just watches Cor for a while, like the instructors had during his exams. Like the king's shield had, when he'd shown up to the surprise of everyone during the acceptance ceremony for his group, to present them with their uniforms. Like he'd said something a kid would've, though he knows for certain he hadn't.

"I meant," Weskham says gently, "what you thought about Leide."

"There's no one out here. Except those — dogs. Are they poisonous?"

Cor scowls when Weskham laughs, the same kind of laugh passed between the others inside the shop. He takes a chance on the soup, grateful to find that it's cooled down enough not to burn his mouth. The warmth feels good, insulating against the chilly air, and he's glad to have an immediate focus that isn't someone making fun of him for basic questions. Weskham settles soon after, turning his attention out toward the valley, the both of them watching the lonely crawl of light making its way out into the distance as the streetlamps activate, illuminating the road beneath.

"Didn't take you long to get acquainted with the locals, I see. They're sabertusks — and no, they're not poisonous, though I hear some of their cousins over in Duscae can be." He tilts his head toward Cor and the cup in his hands. "Do you like it?"

Cor shrugs, still a little stung over the earlier laughter. "It's fine."

"Sounds like I'll need to try harder next time. What's your favorite food, Cor?"

The question comes as a surprise. Not many people ask Cor about himself outside of the usual: where he learned to fight, why he wanted to join the Crownsguard. His immediate thought is to deflect — whatever they serve in the mess at HQ is fine. He isn't stupid enough to be picky during a war. But Weskham has been … nice, even when he didn't have to be. He's gone out of his way, and the question _sounds_ honest.

(He thinks of his mother in front of the stove, shadows under her eyes as she listlessly pushes vegetables around a pan that's more scratch and scorch than finish. Muted dinners around a narrow table, any chance of conversation drowned out by the constant stream of updates from the front, cobbled together from various radio programs. His father, the bank teller who punctuates every commercial break with tales of his father's and his father's father's heroism, the insistence that if it weren't for his bad foot he'd be out there with those brave boys instead of being stuck inside this rotting fucking husk of a city.

Well. _He_ didn't have a bad foot — just a bad attitude, if anyone gave weight to the words of an exasperated homeroom instructor. But _that_ had been a kid. Not _Cor_ , not yet.

No, Cor Leonis was born at the foot of the gray steps of the Citadel one unremarkable Saturday afternoon only a few months ago, pushed out into this world full-formed and cold-eyed: a soldier.)

Cor looks away; he doesn't really want to think about things that don't matter anymore. "Lobster," he says, muted. It was all right, anyway, the few times he'd had it. The sort of thing people might make a fuss over.

"I'll keep it in mind," Weskham says, and no matter how many times Cor turns the words over in his head, he can't sniff out any mockery at all. He watches as Weskham pushes himself away from the boulder and dusts off the backs of his thighs, somehow looking completely at home in this dirty wasteland even in his fancy clothes. "Are you ready to change shifts yet, or shall you stay out here a while longer?"

"It's only been a few hours."

"Precisely. There's a room adjacent to the garage with a pair of beds that we've been granted leave to use, when you would like to rest."

Cor shakes his head. "Leave it for the prince. I'm fine."

"I'm fairly certain Reggie can get by with just _one_ if he wants it, Cor." 

Cor makes a face at the way Weskham says _Reggie_ , like he's just some kid and not the prince of Lucis. "I'm not tired."

Weskham simply smiles, and Cor has the distinct feeling he's being laughed at again. But Weskham accepts it all the same, and Cor hunches down into his jacket as he watches the man ready a retreat. "Well, if you change your mind — you know where everything is. Thank you for keeping an eye out, in the meantime."

Once he's alone again, Cor resettles against his perch. Peers down the road as far as his eyes will allow, and then turns his attention to the desert spread out before him. It's quiet, mostly — a kind he's never really experienced, even in the dead of night back in Insomnia. Out here, Cor can hear a hum that takes him several minutes to identify as the power lines. He can hear a single car coming from miles away, above the small noises of insects and, of course, the frequent laughter coming from the shop. Not as strained sounding; Cor supposes that's as good an indicator as any that the repairs are coming along.

It isn't until much later that Cor realizes he hadn't remembered to say thank you for the meal.

\--

Cor had heard of claustrophobia before, of course — just one more word in a long list of afflictions and weaknesses he could never imagine possessing, much less allowing to influence his mind. 

It's only here, with his hips wedged uncomfortably between a scruffy, sweaty, oil-streaked mechanic surely old enough to be his grandfather and the crown prince of Lucis in the backseat of the Regalia, sweltering in layers of twill and cotton beneath the closed roof of the car as it creeps past another barricade of rusted razor wire and wood scrap, that he thinks he might be able to understand how it might feel.

At this point, it's just another point of misery on a trip that's shaping up to be memorable in all the wrong ways. Cor hadn't known what to expect when he'd heard he'd been requested to accompany the prince on this support mission — hadn't known what to feel other than _pride_ in the fact that at least someone with rank had decided to take him seriously. He knew he could do better than swatting at dummies and less-coordinated Crownsguard trainees, that he belonged on the field with the people making a difference.

For all that, it was clear the prince wasn't the one who'd made the request. He'd been arguing with King Mors up until the moment he realized Cor had come to attention quietly at his back, was still swapping the kind of looks that made Cor experiment with how possible it was to roll his eyes hard enough to see the inside of his own skull with anyone who'd give him more than five seconds at a time. Prince Regis was _supposed_ to be the person he turned to for orders, but he had suddenly developed an annoying habit of finding something else to do whenever Cor circled the question.

 _Stupid._ Cor had already proven himself by overcoming the cadre of instructors that had come up against him, as well as many of his fellow Crownsguard stationed within the city. He'd fought the king's own shield to a draw, only a few weeks ago, and he knew with certainty that he'd have gained the upper hand with just another ten minutes. Of course he wasn't about to be worried by a bunch of Imperial puppets.

\--

Cor keeps one ear on the field commander's briefing, but his attention keeps getting caught on the man's hand, curled against the top of a battered, dirty folding table. Two of his fingers are missing, the stumps of his ring and middle finger scarred and discolored at the ends. Something like that would make handling a sword hard — impossible, even. He wonders how it happened; if it's a battle wound or maybe just some accident.

It doesn't scare Cor, but it does leave a sour taste in the back of his throat, a sympathetic twinge that finds him burying his hands in his own pockets to avoid fidgeting. 

There have been breaches, up and down the coast near Keycatrich, magitech armor and airships driving wedges into the barrier to disgorge platoons of their newest mechanical soldiers. They haven't made it close enough to fire on the community proper, but a lot of people with a lot of money have been making a lot of noise, a slow trickle of nervous men and women in expensive suits, picking their way through the edges of the warzone in an attempt to extract promises of protection for _this_ mansion or _that_ bank. He's had to divert precious manpower to keeping the civilians out, but it remains an issue — and maybe, if Regis might have a word with the mayor, it could do a world of good and maybe keep some of these idiots off the casualty list.

It takes a lot of effort to keep Cor from interrupting to ask about this new mechanical infantry, but he doesn't have to wait long; the commander is talking long-term provisions and necessary reinforcements when the alarm sounds, marking yet another attempted breach. Cor's grateful for the interruption, the nervous energy that's shivering through his bones ratcheting up a notch when Regis demands they accompany the next outbound unit. Temporary reinforcements, Regis says as he takes the commander's scarred, deformed hand. Enough to take some of the burden off of the front lines, if only for a little while.

At least no one had insisted on taking the Regalia, Cor thinks. He avoids being crammed like a sardine in a can by the truck bed full of gray-clad soldiers by virtue of standing upright, clinging to the iron grate shielding the back window. Ahead, it's easy enough to see the splashes of iridescent pink radiating from the noses of those blunt, boxy-looking airships. It's his first time actually _seeing_ proof of the barrier, and it's a little awe-inspiring to see what looks like nothing at all repelling such a huge thing. The kind of power Cor can't even dream of, all thanks to King Mors.

(Proof that Cor had made the right choice, swearing his life to defend him.)

He can see, too, the cluster of machinery gathering at ground level. Several magitek armors, and more infantry than he can accurately count between the jolt and jump of the truck in motion. Enough to know that it's going to be a beast of a fight if they make it through, like the commander said they would. There's a lot of wreckage on this side of the barrier, the hulking shape of Lucian tanks and magitech armors in twisted, burned-out piles, funneling outwards from what Cor assumes is the entry point, more of them dismantled to provide barricades and haphazard walls breaking up the flat spread of the killing field. Much of the ground is pitted and churned up, the coastal grass charred down to nothing. (At least, Cor thinks, it's not sand.)

By the time the truck has made it down to the far end of the field, Cor has identified the shapes of individual soldiers huddled behind those walls of scrap, weapons held at the ready. Their escort — the captain of some unit Cor can't remember the name of — seems to be arguing with Prince Regis inside the cab. They emerge around the same time the last of the soldiers disembarks, Clarus and Weskham and Cid coming around to take up positions around the Prince.

Cor hesitates, at the edge of the group of soldiers. He can already tell by the way the prince is looking at the captain that he's going to end up staying back here, away from the worst of the fight.

And then the sky splits open, the once-dull roar of the world beyond King Mors' barrier thrust suddenly _inside_ with force that's almost deafening.

Cor calls his sword to hand reflexively; the knot of soldiers melts away from him like water around a stone as they race into position, but he's not paying much attention to that. Instead, he's looking at Prince Regis, watching that _thing_ climbing up into his eyes again. Those terrible noises are getting louder — mechanical soldiers and magitek armors pouring in through the gap, the boom of explosions and the howls of men already heavy in the air.

"I'm going," Cor says, and jerks his head towards the breach. "I'm fighting."

The prince opens his mouth, but says nothing. Cor counts the seconds — all seven of them — waiting for something more than a grimace from the man before he turns on his heel and darts off toward the closest barrier. Clarus shouts something, but Cor isn't listening.

\--

It surprises Cor at first, just how many of the men around him are _scared_ — visibly, shamelessly terrified as they fight the advance. The sounds of defiant yells and gunfire merge into one long, rattling howl that fills his mind and threatens to overwhelm his senses. Hands grab at him, now and again, as he weaves his way from one spot of cover to the next, never staying quite long enough to make out what those people are trying to say.

That terrible sound follows him as he finally manages to join up with the vanguard, a lone black spot in a sea of gray. Some of them are armed with guns as well, but the majority of them seem to be wielding various glaives, and Cor hears the sound of blades striking armor long before he makes his way to the front of the column. He hears, too, the sound of flesh giving way beneath Imperial weapons, casualties marked in sprays of blood and the screams of the wounded, punctuated by the blast and scatter of missile shrapnel.

The line of contact is … madness. More than any movie could have ever prepared him for, more than any desperate spar on the training grounds: a world compressed down to ash and mud and the reek of smoke and burn and ruined human bodies. One of the walking armors lets loose a salvo of missiles, and a whole unit of men is simply _gone_ , no proof of their existence at all, save for the spatter of something wet and thick against the side of his face. A bloom of red soaking the dirt.

But Cor fights. Cor _fights_ , his own oversized blade singing like an extension of himself as he darts through the lines of the magitek soldiers, wreaking havoc — small enough that many of their strikes are ill-aimed, nimble enough that the ones that _aren't_ rarely come close. It takes effort, but the shells of those automatons are beginning to litter the battlefield as well. Something hot lances through his thigh and burns, but he snarls his own refusal and gives in to the pulsing beat pounding behind his eyes, overtaking all else. He's a soldier. He's _chosen_.

He's unstoppable.

\--

" _Regis_ , here."

The name — and Weskham's familiar voice — pulls Cor back to awareness. Not _consciousness_ , because he's been walking, he thinks. He has to have done, because his legs are shaking and his breath is coming like he's been running for days. There are hands on his shoulders; not grabbing this time, but holding. Keeping him upright, he realizes, when his next step slews left and there's a gray-clad body in his peripheral vision there to catch him. Without the adrenaline to carry him, he's got nothing left. And with the Prince around ...

How embarrassing is that?

Night has fallen over the battlefield, and the glare from the spotlights strung along the perimeter are blinding. The whole area feels silent in the wake of the battle's end. Did they win? Was the breach sealed? It had to be, or they'd still be fighting. Cor moves in an attempt to shield his eyes from the too-bright light, but his hand only jerks lamely, disobedient, turning the dull ache in his bicep up to a low roar and sparking a prickle of cold sweat across his face.

" _Cor_." Weskham is nothing more than a shadow silhouetted by the light, and Cor squints in an attempt to see him properly. His fancy clothes are dirty and his hands stink of gunpowder, but Cor is too tired to shy away when they touch his face. "Are you all right?"

"Fine." He just needs a minute to get his breath back. He's felt worse. He's—

"I was informed this one was yours, Your Highness." A voice to go along with the hands on his shoulders. Cor doesn't recognize it.

Over the hum of the lights and the distant sounds of people moving and barking orders, Cor hears a sigh — he'd roll his eyes at how miserable the Prince makes it sound, but he's putting too much effort into trying to focus his unfocused gaze properly on Weskham's face to bother. It doesn't matter what the prince does or doesn't like. They'd won. Surely, they'd _won_.

Cor feels the hands on his shoulders let go when the prince approaches, feels Weskham pull away to join the other two at his back. "So he is," the prince says. "My thanks, soldier."

"I didn't realize we were so—" 

"We aren't," Regis says hurriedly, but he sounds as exhausted as Cor feels. Had they really been fighting back here, too? They must have, but he doesn't remember much of anything beyond the sound. Irritated, Cor drops his attention to his non-responsive arm, startled to see the remnants of an automaton's barbed hook buried in the meat of it just above the joint of his elbow, dangling frayed wire. _Oh_.

(The jacket's a loss — probably the pants, too. He hopes he's not going to get yelled at about it.)

The soldier is saying something else, but Cor doesn't catch it. He doesn't catch much of anything beyond the increasingly distant sound of Cid's squawked curses as the world goes completely dark.

\--

When Cor wakes, he's back in the Regalia, this time wedged between Weskham and Prince Regis. Or — that's not right, not quite. What he _is_ is propped up against the prince's shoulder, bundled in a blanket like some sick kid. Instinct rouses a half-second later and his head jerks upright, reaching for his indignation like a shield to fend off certain ridicule. How embarrassing. How —

A hand, light against his shoulder. "Rest," Weskham says.

"He's up?" Clarus's voice is low and resonant. Cor can't hear any hostility in it.

Cid barks a strange sound as he leans down to reach for something below the seat. "About damned time," the old man grumbles, and then unceremoniously tosses a chunk of metal and wire into Cor's lap.

Beside Cor, the prince stirs, regarding the discarded, mangled hook resting awkwardly on its bed of gray wool before he lifts his eyes to meet Cor's. "Unauthorized cosmetic modifications are against Crownsguard regulations — isn't that right, Clarus?"

"That's right. A bold statement, perhaps, but unwise. Maybe an earring, instead — or a bangle. One with protective enchantments."

Cid chortles behind the wheel.

Cor feels his entire face heat. The prince is still looking at him. _Looking_ at him, an odd angle to his mouth, but for once it isn't dismay. (His eyes, Cor notes, are very, very green.) Disoriented still from sleep, Cor opens his mouth and finds he can't think of a single thing to say.

"Now that all parties are present and awake, I think it's about time to tally the score." Clarus sounds — amused. In his peripheral vision, he sees the big man turn in the passenger seat, slinging a thick arm over the headrest as he shifts his attention to the back of the car.

It's Weskham's deep, unhappy sigh that finally pulls Cor's attention away from the prince. "Must we?"

"Oh, yeah." Clarus is _definitely_ amused. "We absolutely must. Out with it, already."

Weskham's smile is apologetic. "Very well, then. As of our visit to Keycatrich, at the top, we have Reggie, Cid and Clarus with zero." Cid cackles, and Cor stares at his craggy profile while Weskham continues. "Next, myself, with a score of one. Which leaves you last in the ranking, Crownsguard Leonis, with a significant disadvantage of _six_."

"Gonna be hard to make that one up," Clarus rumbles, while the prince just shakes his head.

Cor doesn't understand what any of them are talking about. "Six— " His voice fails, dry and raspy with disuse, and he scowls as he swallows and attempts again. "Six _what_?"

"Curatives administered," Weskham supplies with a slight grimace.

"I'm fairly certain our dear colleague tried to catch a mortar shell, but thought better of it too late." Clarus grins at Weskham — teasing, Cor thinks. It's appalling. It's — easier, he thinks, than trying to think too hard about the details of the fight itself.

Weskham sniffs primly. "I was _distracted_."

"Best ease up, boy," Cid says over his shoulder, and Cor is too tired to more than half-bristle at it. "You'll make Reggie cry, what with all the work that goes into magicking up new ones."

Prince Regis doesn't seem to mind the teasing. Instead, he leans his head against the window, staring out at the passing terrain. Cor's attention turns outward as well. It's greener than he recalls — the mountains significantly closer than they'd been the last time they'd been driving. Cor wonders how long he's been asleep, but is too apprehensive to ask, worried it might turn into another barrage of ribbing at his expense.

"I _would_ rather sleep, of course," the prince says, and Cor is startled by another of his faint smiles. Directed out the window, yes, but he gets the feeling it might not be wrong to assume it's meant for him. "Stay close next time, Cor."

"Why?" As nice as things might be right now, Cor doesn't want to have to deal with the prince's paralysis beside him, the next time they find themselves on a battlefield.

"Easier to keep score."

 _Well_. 

It's stupid. But — at least Cor supposes he can tolerate it, as far as reasons go. "Yes, sir."

Cor catches Weskham smiling at them both when he leans back into his seat, but decides it's best not to pursue the matter. Instead, he worms a hand out from between the folds of the blanket to reach for the hook in his lap, a little tacky still with dried blood. "What am I supposed to do with this, anyway?"

"I've got a few ideas," Cid says — and though the four of them laugh and Cor doesn't understand what he means, for once he's certain that he _will_.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a whole lot of questions for the jokers who decided to take a stabby fetus and go 'yes, absolutely, you're a soldier-cop now', as well as the jokers who decided to send this fetus into the thick of the war, and all of those questions boil down to _what the fuck_.
> 
> Also holy shit trying to find a coherent timeline for this game is a mess. If, as they all seem to agree, Cor was born in 711, he is not 15 during the great war but rather 13-14, tops. (If 12/7 really _is _his birthday, like I've allowed here in the spirit of Cor week, he is in fact 13 years and two months old at the beginning of the war.)__
> 
> __  
> _Not a good look, Lucis. No wonder Regis has a tiny crisis every time Cor tries to ask him what he wants him to go destroy._  
> 


End file.
